“I’m serious. You and me. We’ll ride to your parent’s kingdom. Surely they’ll offer us sanctuary, right?”
A sad sort of smile appeared on her face. “Oh, I wish we could.” She cupped his cheek, trying not to cry. He shifted, pulling her into his lap, cradling her against his chest.
“We can try.”
“We can’t,” she whispered through her tears. “Arthur would find me. He believes that an heir born from my womb will be the downfall ofhis kingdom. He wouldn’t let me leave.”
“But your father-”
“Is loyal to the crown far before he is loyal to his family.” The steady thrum of his heartbeat was a balm to her soul. “You were supposed to break me,” she said, softer now. “Arthur wanted you to destroy my spirit, crush therebellionin me, Lancelot.”
He laughed, her cheek jostling against his bare chest. “I have never been prouder of a failure in my life.”
43
When she awoke the following morning, the fire had died out, and she found herself alone in their bed. Guinevere faintly remembered something about jousting, practice, and perhaps a horse.
It wasn’t long before a gentle knock came from her chamber room door. Lunete and Delphine stood on the other side, smiles bright as they entered. “You’ve a meeting this morning, your grace.” The older woman said as they guided Gwen to the vanity.
Once seated, the queen noticed the brightness in their smiles was tight. It didn’t reach their eyes. “Lunete?” She asked, brow furrowing.
“Oh, it’s nothing, my queen. His Majesty has asked you to join him as he prepares for a tournament in the next fortnight.” Tugging the brush through her hair, she offered another half-hearted grin.
“A tournament?” Her heart stuttered in her chest, tensing beneath the brush.
“Yes, your grace. Knights from across the realm answered the king’s summons. His Majesty wishes to entertain the court.” She paused, breathing deep. “Continue the celebration of the newborn babe.”
Guinevere felt her lungs constricting. “And the Round Table?”
Delphine’s hand squeezed her shoulder gently, laying a dress out on the bed behind them. “He’ll be fine, your grace.”
She nodded, blinking back tears. Lunete’s hands braided her hair carefully, calmly. “He’s a good man, Guinevere,” the older woman whispered with a smile. “They’ll look out for him.”
“Who?” She swallowed, trying to push back the emotions that threaded through her throat.
Lunete leaned around her, adjusting her own greying hair in the mirror. That was when Gwen noticed a ribbon in her maid’s hair. A deep crimson tie held her hair up, a stark contrast to the plain colors of her clothing. “Friends can be found anywhere,” she smiled, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “You just have to know where to look.” She tightened her ribbon before lovingly pinching the queen’s cheek.
Guinevere stood in the sunlight hours later, the dress Delphine had laid out stiff at her shoulders, too fine for a morning meeting. Arthur liked her in gold and ivory — like an icon, untouchable. She felt like a statue as she moved through the stone halls.
And yet… something strange stirred in her chest.
At first, it was nothing.
A kitchen boy passed her in the corridor, bowing awkwardly. A strip of crimson cloth wrapped around his wrist, half-hidden beneath his sleeve.
A noblewoman stood in the hallway, speaking in hushed tones to a steward. A ribbon tied around her fan fluttered red in the breeze.
Two knights walked past in conversation, helmets at their sides. One bore a crimson braid woven into the leather hilt of his sword.
It continued.
A stable hand. A lady-in-waiting. A scribe. A seamstress. A guard posted silently at the stairs.
Little things. Barely there threads. But all the same shade.
Crimson.
It bloomed like a secret, one only she was meant to see. A signal passed hand to hand, worn like a prayer, a promise.
